


Human Heart

by Curiaso



Series: Loss [1]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, Character Death, Death, Depression, Developing Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, Emotional Sherlock, Five Stages of Grief, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Implied/Referenced Character Death, John is a Good Friend, John is a Saint, Light Angst, M/M, Mycroft is dead, Not Really Character Death, Sad, Supportive John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 06:55:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,329
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8655070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Curiaso/pseuds/Curiaso
Summary: "Sherlock doesn’t cry. John watches him close enough to constant for the days, weeks, and months that follow. Goes about the process of checking sock drawers, hidden nooks, and shadowed crannies. He finds nothing but stale dust." The process of how Sherlock Holmes deals with the death of his elder brother.





	

Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock.

When Mycroft dies, it comes as a huge shock. They find out in their sitting room, listening intently as the elder Holmes’ most trusted assistant takes on the role of bad news bearer. They are not given intimate detail, but Sherlock is clever enough to deduce, and John enough to postulate. Some assassin. Sherlock is sure Hungarian, John doesn't particularly care. Anthea, Angela, Agora, whatever her name may be, leaves without another word, and only the barest of condolences. 

 

Sherlock doesn’t cry. John watches him close enough to constant for the days, weeks, and months that follow. Goes about the process of checking sock drawers, hidden nooks, and shadowed crannies. He finds nothing but stale dust, and Sherlock doesn't kick up a fuss about his index of footwear, or how insulting John’s worries are. He drinks the tea John makes for him, and eats the toast that Mrs. Hudson sets beside him, and he doesn't shoot bullets into wall, or leave fuzzy moss to grow in the fridge. 

But that is what concerns John, because for all the peace he’s had these last few days; this isn't Sherlock. Greg phones, twice! And both times Sherlock allowed the call to ring itself out. There’s been no complaining, no angry rants, or heated deductions when clients come to visit. He doesn't wear a single suit, or snark much at all. John doesn't know what to do. Every time he tries to work Mycroft into conversation, he’d shut down immediately, and left alone with his own thoughts, as Sherlock locks himself away in his bedroom. 

 

The only time Sherlock leaves the flat is for Mycroft’s funeral, which is attended by very few. Sherlock’s mother cries quietly, clinging onto her husband and her only son’s arms. John feels every bit the outsider. When they finally get home, Sherlock collapses onto the couch and doesn't move for three days straight. 

It is weeks passed, and John has yet to see his flatmate leave the house, investigate a case, or otherwise interact with the world. He is a living statue in many respects. 

John is working hard to get Sherlock out of the house, and to Scotland Yard, and this is when he’s given a fuller view into what Sherlock’s brain has been like since Mycroft's passing. 

“I can’t.” It’s quiet and monotone, but John hears the fear. “I can’t….What if someth-” The door to his bedroom slams so hard the skull on the mantel rattles. John burrows his face into his hands, and does his best not to cry. Sherlock is terrified of what the outside world is like without the protection of big brother, and John understands now. Completely. 

 

Later that night as John lays in bed, half asleep with weariness, half awake with worry, Sherlock creeps up the stairs like a child out of bed. The upstairs bedroom door creeks, and John becomes hyper-aware of every bit of blanket touching his skin, and every shift in the air. He lifts the duvet without a word, and Sherlock crawls in with a jagged sigh, that sounds so much like sobbing. 

When John wakes that morning, Sherlock is gone. 

It goes like this for another week. Sherlock waiting till John is almost dead to the world, before curling up next to his sun-like warmth. They never touch under the covers, simply sharing the heat of one another's body, and being lulled by the breaths of the other. Sherlock always rises first, and leaves before John can catch him staring at wispy blonde eyelashes, or twitchy lips. 

 

Sherlock regains some small ability of interaction with the outside world, even going out to Angelo’s one night, sitting in the same booth as their first meal together. 

It isn't till they’ve both had a glass and a half of rich red wine that John begins to really talk.

“Sherlock-” 

“Hm?”

There is a long pause, and Sherlock freezes when he realizes what direction this is going in. But he forces his muscles to relax. This is John. Trusted, warm, jumper wearing, strong, wonderful John. Sherlock has wrapped himself in grief for what feels like years, and John has been the only source of light in it all. He is the only one Sherlock can trust in full anymore. 

“What can I do?” Sherlock’s breath catches at how earnestly John’s question is asked. How much worry this beautiful man carries with him. He is reminded yet again how much he loves him. And by correlation, how much it hurts to love someone that can never love you the same way in return. 

 

Sherlock wants so much to explain to John how he is already perfect at what he is doing, and how if there was any more he could do, Sherlock certainly did not know of it. He wants to write out all the ways in which John has saved him in his life, and then show him how half those times have been in this month alone. He wants to engulf this wonderful man in a tangible form of his love, some humongous monstrosity of a human heart. Wants to wrap John in his thoughts, so that he can see how many parts of Sherlock’s palace are scattered with him, in all his forms. Sherlock wishes he had the words, or the props to show John his true worth.

As it is, he has nothing but a wineglass, a fork, and words that simply will not show the extent to which his love stretched. 

 

“Nothing. You are...perfect John. You are ‘doing’ already.” His gaze stays fixed on the remnant of his Pasta Carbonara. “I-I cannot explain John…. How much I appreciate all you have done-do for me.” His voice shakes, and within an instant John has slid to his side of the booth, and is pressing their sides close. Their arms stay independent of one another, but the soft, warm pressure of John’s body, next to his own, calm’s Sherlock. 

They sit like that the rest of the meal, and only separate when they finally decide to leave. Angelo waves them goodbye with a suggestive twinkle in his eye. 

 

After that John makes no mention of Mycroft again. Not when he catches Sherlock staring at a childhood photo of them, nor when the nighttime visits continue. Sherlock regains who he is, but it is a slower, sadder version in the first month. John watches as the stages of grief pass. Denial was not obvious, but John assumes this to be a special case. After all, everything is with Sherlock Holmes. Anger takes place in the form of a bullet finally breaching wall, and a dish smashed loudly against tile floors, and Sherlock raving about how the entire flat is ruined all because of Mrs. Hudson’s dusting. Bargaining danced a merry jig as Sherlock called his brothers old number, but only stayed for a day or so before it was gone. Sherlock was no fool, and death was no merchant to be bartered with. Sherlock knew this well.

Depression was long and hard, keeping him locked in his room, and unresponsive. It came as Sherlock started a task and never completed it. It came when Sherlock would feel well enough to eat, and then all of a sudden too sick to hold it in. It anchored itself to near completion when Sherlock would sleep for days on end.

It left without packing when John reached for Sherlock’s hand under warm sheets, and held it all the night, with only the sounds of the city outside, and their breathing inside.

And acceptance came only two months after the announcement of Mycroft’s death, when Sherlock’s violin is played till the strings give out, and Lestrade is texted so many times his inbox fills, and when John comes home, 6 o’clock, to an empty flat, with only a note as explanation. 

 

Gone to Scotland Yard. Should be home by 12.  
Thank you, SH

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you enjoyed! If you did, consider leaving some Kudos! If you really want to brighten up my day, write a Comment! And if you don't want to loose this, consider Bookmarking so you (and whoever may be lurking on your profile) can keep track of "Human Heart". Have a great day!


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